


Breathe Out

by entanglednow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Rough Sex, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-05
Updated: 2010-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-14 16:05:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's still riding the adrenaline high. He's still stuck at the top of that curve, hands shaking, skin too tight, stripping off his clothes so fast and so rough that they tear at the seams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe Out

  
Dean's still riding the adrenaline high. He's still stuck at the top of that curve, hands shaking, skin too tight, stripping off his clothes so fast and so rough that they tear at the seams.

The shower's just a fraction away from too hot, a skid of water that leaves his back stinging under the scrapes and scratches and tiny bits of grit still buried under the skin. From where he got dragged across the ground by the angry ghost of the week.

Leaning against the wall doesn't help, the press of cold tiles doing _fuck all_ to calm the restless gnawing. The shift and stretch of fingers and toes. He's breathing under the spray in long, shaking pulls, trying to calm it, trying to flatten it back down. Swallow it, shove it anywhere he doesn't have to feel the quick repetitive pound of it. The water's pulling mud and dried blood off of him, though he's damned if he knows what's still bleeding and what's just the mess of floorboards and old dirt pressed into the skin. It's not pulling out the ache, the knife-sharp drag across his skin that won't quit.

When he turns round and looks up through wet lashes he finds the devil watching him. He's clear enough through the steam, leant back against the sink with his arms crossed.

Dean spits out water and raises an eyebrow. He dares him wordlessly to have a reason to be there or get the fuck out.

There's a long pause - before Lucifer pulls off his shirt. Dean watches, head moving out of the spray, while Lucifer strips off his t-shirt and jeans. He lets them land wherever they fall, careless, eyes never leaving him.

Dean steps back, as close to wordless permission as you can get - and then he's not alone in the shower any more.

Lucifer shoves him into the wall, skin going wet and slick under the water, until Dean's fingers can't grip it any more, can barely hold onto it under that trail of liquid and the devil has his jaw in one hand, head tipped back. Like he's wondering how to break him.

Dean's expression doesn't change.

"Make yourself fucking useful," he hisses out instead. Which earns him his very own curve of amusement. The slide of a thumb under his jaw, pushing in just a fraction, where the skin is thin and delicate. The curve of amusement goes wide and deep and then Lucifer is sliding down, all the way down, hands forcing him back a step. Until the jut of Dean's hipbone is jumping and burning under the devil's teeth and Dean's working on instinct when he reaches for the wet spikiness of Lucifer's hair, sliding through it and catching just enough to make his head rock back.

Christ, there are no words - no fucking words for what that looks like. It takes him from interested to something that's closer to a bright, hard ache in seconds.

His fingers readjust and then tighten in Lucifer's hair, it's not long enough to make a fist, not quite long enough to hold but Dean can still be pretty fucking enthusiastic about where he wants him. About how he wants him. Head tilted back and held, water running across the back of it and plastering his hair down.

It's surprisingly satisfying to have the lord of hell kneeling there.

So fucking close to where he wants him the most.

"Open your mouth," Dean says breathlessly. It's a rush of words, shaky with daring, but he can't stop them falling free. They're out of his mouth before they pass through his brain. Before he thinks about them at all. About what he's demanding. But, fuck, yes, he wants that so badly he's going to risk the narrowed eyes and the steady press of fingers into his hipbones, hard enough to ache all the way through. Like Lucifer's debating whether to resist, whether to object, whether to make him _hurt_ for it. Dean knows that he doesn’t have a fucking hope of holding him if he decides that he will. That he doesn't have a hope of making Lucifer do anything he doesn't want to do. Of making him work for it, when he deserves exactly that. Deserves every messed up, fucking humiliating thing Dean can think of, and he can think of a lot.

He's damned if this isn't something like near-suicidal fucking recklessness. But he can't remember the last time he wanted anything this much. Can't remember ever not caring and wanting at the same time, bleeding adrenaline and relief and the shocky edge of lust so sharp it feels like his veins are going to catch on fire.

But Lucifer laughs quietly, amusement and warmth against the wet jut of his cock, so fucking close, just a little - Dean twists his hand in the devil's hair, fingers dug in tight, much too tight, and he _pulls_.

He slides in wet and heavy, breath dropping out of him in one long shuddering noise. Lucifer's mouth is a steady burn of heat and friction. The slide across his tongue feels like something he shouldn’t be allowed. That _no one_ should be allowed.

It makes everything sharper, harder. Dean's choking out a breathless litany of profanity and filth as he slides in and then back out, hand so tight in Lucifer's hair his fingers are going to cramp to fuck. Hips trying their damnedest to get him all the way inside. Wondering if he can prise Lucifer's jaw wide and leave bruises. He's fairly sure he can't. Lucifer's pretty much indestructible and Dean's dreaming if he thinks he's the one in control here. If he thinks he's the one saying exactly where this is going. But it doesn't stop him from thinking it, doesn't stop him from _wanting_ it.

Hell with it, he doesn’t care. Because from where he's standing it feels like it. What does it matter if it's not true when he can do this. One steady, hard push after another, too quick and too deep.

The slide of water throws up spray and stings his eyes but he can't look away, can't stop watching. It's like some twisted up dream where the devil's open wide and Dean's dragging him in and making him take it. Pretty sure Lucifer's going to let him come like that and he's barely thought it, barely had the dirty, fucking impossible stab of it in his brain before he's there. Watching it happen in two slippery wet shoves.

He ends that dizzy, demanding moment with the back of his head against the tiles, panting for every breath, straining for it while his body relaxes in a series of near-drunken, hitching movements.

Until there's a hand in his hair, as tight as his own was, only Dean's not an angel, not even close to being fine with how hard Lucifer's fingers dig, how much the twist and drag of his hair fucking hurts and he's shoved round like he weighs nothing at all.

Lucifer drags both hands behind his back, body weight taking him into the chill of the wall with a sharp smack and Dean feels the inside of his cheek break on his teeth, while the water pours against his shoulder.

His knee hits the tile with a solid thud, a blunt roaring edge of pain. Then his face is pushed forward into the wall and held there, tipped down so the water runs over it but doesn't choke him, tile freezing against his cheek. Metallic smear of blood across his tongue. Dean jerks against the hold but he knows he's not getting out of it. Knows he could struggle until his fucking shoulder popped. It doesn't even matter that he's just come. All the shaky looseness from his orgasm is gone and there's that jittery edge to every breath, to the way Lucifer's hand is tight and strong and vicious, one bare foot kicking his legs apart, the balls of his feet slipping on the tiles.

There's the faraway wet clatter of something in the bottom of the shower. The cap off the shower gel, or the shampoo, Dean doesn't fucking know. But he's not stupid and he's already dragging air when Lucifer shoves two fingers inside him. He opens in a shameless, easy stretch that leaves him grunting against the tiles, a flare of warmth when his breath stutter-flares out of him.

His whole body is shaking and jumping and he can hear the wreck of his own voice, quick bursts of unintelligible nonsense, half vicious refusal and half desperate begging. But when two fingers become three he's the one shoving back, hips jolting as much as they can with the full length of Lucifer's body pressing him there.

The fingers pull out of him and there's barely a pause before he's opening to a harder push, too heavy and too hot. It breaks him and owns him and he's swearing into the sharp white of the wall, teeth gritted when the pressure goes deep, goes all the way inside.

There's blood running down the wall below his mouth and his arms are already starting to burn low and fierce. But it's all bright edges. All a distant echo to every quick, dirty shove that opens him up, and breaks and fucking bruises him all the way through and he's groaning on every solid, too-hard thrust. He's begging in shaky animal noises, tiles warm under his face now. Hating himself for it, but wanting it too badly to care.

His wrists are aching in the fierce grip of Lucifer's fingers and he can feel the wet, slippery press of flesh when Lucifer pushes in. The way his own cock stabs and slides against the chill of the wall every time.

"Fuck -" It's good, it's good, it's so good. Even when it's too hard. Even when Lucifer goes too deep. Fuck, _especially_ when he goes too deep. A steady, rough pressure that leaves him half-choking on his own shame. Refusing to think about anything else, about anyone else.

Because it's wrong and it hurts and Dean's so fucking alive he could scream.

One more thrust, two, three - a heavy slam of pressure that leaves him coming without being touched, a messy jerk of fluid against the wall, washed clean a second later by the torrent of water. The roar of the shower swallows half the noise he makes, leaves his throat raw and tender. It makes every breath suddenly sharp and painful. He's still shaking in Lucifer's grip, still jolted into the wall on every thrust, pressed open, forced through his own orgasm, too sensitive and too raw.

Until he's begging, not even sure for what. Slurred and desperate and there's a second where everything is so hard and so much that he can't breathe, that he's choking on it. Before Lucifer is sliding all the way in, heavy and demanding and then wet and Dean's groaning something messy and stupid, halfway between relief and gratitude.

He's so fucked up.

So completely and totally fucked up.

There's a pause, like the whole world is hanging on the edge, before Lucifer eases out of him, fingers releasing his arms to fall stinging and numb against the tile. Pretty much useless to hold him up. But then Lucifer doesn’t let him go.

He's breathing, pulling in every breath like it's new while Lucifer pulls water out of his hair and down his back, washing off the last of the blood. Skipping palms over the bruises and scratches that Dean can suddenly feel far too well. He leans his face in the spray and holds his breath for a long time.

Until he feels calm, like he's in control, like he can breathe again.

Lucifer's fingers are dragging back and forth in his hair, in a way that's strangely mindless. Dean thinks maybe it's a gesture he picked up from Sam. He pulls his head out of the spray and turns to face him, water rolling past his eyes and giving the bathroom a too sharp, too clear shine.

Lucifer looks perfectly calm, but then he always does. Bastard. Dean reaches out and tugs at the wet stretch of his neck, thumb sliding through the mess of stubble almost gone to beard across his jaw. Pulls him down and in. The hard, graceless shove of mouth that Dean gives him is as close to a real kiss as they ever get. But he can't quite bring himself to call it one.

He doesn't let it go on for long, pulling away and letting his hands fall. He leans back against the wall, body scraped raw and carved open and made new.

Dean feels like he can breathe again, and he knows that when he opens his eyes he'll be alone in the shower.

Cas can't give him this. He shouldn’t have to give him this.

Dean would never ask him for it.

  



End file.
